


Curating Us

by oviparous



Series: Ojisan Idol [1]
Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Idols, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10057607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oviparous/pseuds/oviparous
Summary: A talent agency assembles a group of men over 35 to debut as an idol boyband as a last ditch effort to save themselves from bankruptcy. One of the members isn't entirely truthful why he's there, and as he struggles to reconcile his motivations for being in the group, he finds something more than what he signed up for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on Livejournal, and is the metaplot (main story) of a web of upcoming fics.

_Ninomiya Kazunari lived alone._

_The bus stop below his apartment building was on a route that offered access to Akihabara within 30 minutes. It was why he rented the place, a modest 1K room that, under his decorative supervision, paid wall-to-wall homage to the likes of Square Enix and Konami with the hundreds of games he’d lovingly installed upon the shelves._

_Interestingly, he wasn’t one of those_ otaku _types. He wasn’t emotionally invested, so to speak. There wasn’t a shred of game merchandise in his home, nor did he attend any conventions. He just liked games, liked playing them, completing them, often playing several at once when not working at the rental video store where he had been employed full-time._

_He was content, just him and his games._

_Above one of his TVs, a bunch of titles still in their original wrapping stood at eye level. With a sort of wistful nonchalance Ninomiya revealed this to be his collection of local multiplayers, games from a more archaic hour of the 21st century when people ‘were happy to share oxygen with each other and game offline.’_

_When asked about whether he’s ever thought about following the trend of having roommates — the members of his unit, maybe? — to constantly share his gameplay or help break out_ Intrepid Dragon Hunters _, he laughed and responded:_

_“No. Never. I like the people in my home to come and go.”_

_Ninomiya then stilled for a brief second._

_“But if it’s those guys, maybe they can stay a night.” He grinned. “Or two.”_

***

“The count is three _and four_ , Sakurai!” yelled Matsuoka, the dance coach. “Clap in rhythm!”

Sho wasn’t the best dancer, but this was part of his job now, and he was going to try his damnedest to master the moves to ‘So you wanna uh-uh’ because when it came to everything he tried, Sho was anything but half-assed.

“Got it, Sensei,” Sho shouted back, attempting the move again and performing it correctly.

The cameras were rolling, recording everything down for posterity, creating some unnecessary pressure. So this was what it was like to be on the other side of the media. To be in a documentary. To be — dare he think it? — almost famous.

Sho shook his head. _He_ wasn’t going to be famous. Not in this way.

Looking in the mirror, he caught Jun giving him an amiable smile. Of the five of them, Sho and Jun had the least experience performing. It was natural that they bonded over their inadequacy, though Sho could see very well that Jun took to dancing a lot better than he did. Jun wasn’t exactly starting from zero, after all.

“Ohno!” the coach bellowed, stopping the music. “Why aren’t you moving?”

Everyone stilled except the film crew, who moved forward to pick up voices and frame shots.

Matsuoka seemed genuinely mad.

Ohno managed an apology. He’d been out of sorts since morning, when Joshima had officially declared the start of idol boot camp at a ceremonial-like briefing. They’d all noticed how different Ohno had been from their first meeting, but didn’t know each other well enough to pry.

Matsuoka stared at Ohno for a few long seconds, nostrils flaring.

“We start again in ten,” he said curtly, and turned around to grab his towel off the barre before exiting the room.

Aiba ran to the bathroom, and they all heard him say ‘uh oh’ as he twisted the doorknob. The rest of them headed for the benches at the side of the studio, where their towels and drinks were waiting.

Sho could sense cameras training on them as they moved. It was weird, though he understood that it was the job of the team to document everything, even the breaks. Settling himself on the linoleum and using the bench as a backrest, Sho was taking a swig of his barley tea when he heard:

“What’s up?”

It was Nino, talking to Ohno, two feet away from him. Sho hesitated before shimmying over on his butt. Nino had had him in earshot, after all; he hadn’t been eavesdropping. He shot a meaningful look at Jun, beckoning him over.

“It’s nothing,” Ohno replied, hugging his knees close to his chest as he balanced on the bench.

“Why did you stop dancing halfway?” Nino asked, the gentleness of his voice catching Sho off guard. Sho had only known Nino — well, all of them — a mere seven hours, including the two-hour meeting they’d had in July, and _gentle_ wasn’t the first word that came to mind when he thought of descriptors for Nino. Nino was witty, conversational, intelligent. Sho guessed ‘gentle’ could be on that list now.

The sound guy was inching towards them with a mic, and Jun shot him a warning look, shaking his head. Sound Guy stood where he was, averting his eyes. He didn’t go closer, but he didn’t retreat either. Jun was looking mighty pissed.

“He’s just doing his job, Matsumoto-kun,” said Sho softly. “Come on; if it’s too sensitive, they’ll edit it out.”

Jun relaxed at this. “Yeah. I guess. But could you stand here?” Jun requested, making Sho close the gap between them, hiding Ohno from sight. “I still don’t feel comfortable with them filming every single thing.”

Sho felt a warm gush of affection for Jun at his protectiveness. It was really unexpected. He’d thought these guys would be flamboyant, self-centred types. They’d _chosen_ to be in this project, after all.

The next moment saw Aiba come out of the door in the mirrored wall, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants as he shut the door behind him. He froze when he saw the men in a huddle before rushing over, saying:

“What did I miss? What did I miss?”

Nino raised his eyebrows. “You have spectacular tact,” he politely informed Aiba.

“He’s saying it’s nothing,” Sho updated, nodding towards Ohno, knowing Aiba would know what ‘it’ meant.

Aiba frowned. “Look, Ohno-san. We’re a unit now. If there’s something and it’s affecting your performance, it’s gonna affect ours too, so…”

Aiba left his words hanging. Ohno’s shoulders slumped as he let out the tiniest of sighs.

“I’ve not done this for over twenty years. I thought I left it behind. I was happy I did, then I wasn’t, then I got myself into this, then I was happy again. But I’m also fucking scared.”

Ohno put his face in his hands.

“What the hell am I doing?” they heard him mumble.

Sho and Jun exchanged looks.

“I think it’s ridiculous,” Nino began in an effort to comfort Ohno, “that a group of men in their late thirties are trying to claim a share of the idol market. And it’s even more ridiculous that we actually made an effort to audition for this. At our age, it’s almost shameful that this is our dream. If we were hoping to be musicians or something, it’d be less embarrassing. But we’re trying to be idols. _Professional idols._ ”

Nino heaved a great sigh.

“Fuck, it sounds even worse out loud.”

Aiba looked scandalised. He’d been an underground idol for years. He had _fans_ , real ones, the types that screamed at the internet of their readiness to embrace his major debut. He was about to retort, but Nino pressed on.

“You must be thinking the same way,” continued Nino, looking into Ohno’s confused face. He looked at Sho and Jun. “You guys, too.”

Sho opened his mouth to protest. “I don’t think—”

“Maybe a little bit,” said Jun quietly, earning Aiba’s full-on horror. A smile then flickered onto Jun’s face. “But who cares, right? If it’s ridiculous, so be it. It’s what we want to do.”

Nino was grinning now. “My thoughts exactly.” He stood and patted Ohno’s cheek. “Relax. We’re feeling as stupid as you are, but we’re gonna go with the flow.”

Aiba folded his arms and shook his head. “I beg to differ. I’m Makuhari’s Super Idol. I know perfectly well why I’m here — so I can finally make a splash in the mainstream with this brand new, extra sexy, extra mature, extra good-looking pop group. Look out, Japan. These under-40 idols are gonna storm the nation,” Aiba ended with a flourish, before he noticed the way everyone was looking at him.

There was a beat before Aiba looked Ohno in the eye and said:

“Okay, yeah. I heard myself. Can’t blame you, dude.”

Sho blinked before turning to Ohno once more. “I think that was supposed to be your pep talk?”

***

_Four months ago —_

_It was 10 PM._

_The executives of Joshima & Associates had been in their strategy meeting for hours; apart from relying on divine intervention, all they could think of was to take out more loans. There were concerts to fund, salaries to pay, overheads to finance, amongst a host of other burdens. Someone jokingly suggested robbing a bank; there were only a few chuckles around the table. People were actually thinking about it._

_The truth, in its plainest form, was that Joshima & Associates was dancing on the edge of bankruptcy._

_President Joshima Shigeru founded the corporation in 1994, and all throughout the early 2000s it had kept up its reputation as the talent agency that made legends of the entertainment business, of whom the most prominent and unforgettable was solo artist Onda Takuma._

_Onda’s amicable departure from Joshima & Associates in 2009 was, as was largely publicised, due to his decision to go independent, a move which facilitated his career switch to volunteerism. To this day Onda is still helping to build schools and orphanages by singing his hit song ‘Michi’ (re-released in 2010 under Onda’s own label, _Pika**nchi _) through many an impoverished land._

_Ironically, the endorsement of Onda’s altruism translated into a scandal for Joshima & Associates — it was the catalyst for the surprise resignation of their most popular artistes: rock band La Tormenta Steelo, idol group Transtormers and female pop duo TAKA x YUUJI. They claimed they’d lost faith in the longevity of their careers with the agency because Onda was no longer around to anchor the business; the three acts then went on to form their own corporation, leaving Joshima & Associates with only one debuted group to their name, the then-brand new BABAND, the heavy metal group of four ladies who had retired from the Takarazuka Revue._

_Though Joshima & Associates did their best, training and debuting two other groups (enka-pop septet Octagon and ten-member-strong Evergold), the damage was done. Enrolment for their training school had declined sharply because the exodus had depreciated the Joshima & Associates brand; tweens and teens weren’t keen to align themselves with what they deemed less cool. BABAND hadn’t been as big of a success as they’d hoped and their two newest groups were still fighting for purchase in the world of entertainment; there was more money going out than coming in._

_If only they could come up with an act that would not only create media buzz, but hopefully also deliver them out of this financial quagmire. An act that sold big._

_“Hey, didn’t Amuse lose loads of brownie points because they let Fukuyama Masaharu get married last year? Maybe_ we _should form an idol group, take advantage of their wandering-soul fanbase. We totally fit the demographic. Yamaguchi-kun, don’t you play bass or something?” Nagase Tomoya had joked, gesturing to the four other men seated at the table. The producer was trying to lighten the mood of what he’d described as a ‘soul-sucking’ meeting, and as he’d expected, the room responded after a pause:_

_“Naaaaah,” and Nagase was pleased to see his colleagues chortling._

_The only person who wasn’t laughing was the president himself. Looking pensive, Joshima stood up slowly from his chair, calling Nagase a genius._

_For a horrific moment everyone thought their leader was going to suggest that they venture out of the backroom to be performers. Instead, Joshima came up with the best idea anyone had had that day._

The U-40 Male Idol Contest.

***

The first night in the dormitory became slightly awkward when they realised they had to sleep really close to each other.

Jun had had the impression that there were going to be separate rooms while Nino, Ohno and Aiba had expected at least bunk beds. Sho had no expectations, so he bravely entered the room and dumped his duffel, laptop bag and suitcase on the tatami.

At Sho’s initiative, Jun seemed a little less apprehensive and stepped into the room, the other three following him.

Finding a set of doors, Jun slid them open, revealing a tidy stack of futons, blankets and pillows.

“Closet’s quite spacious,” said Jun. “We could fit some of our stuff in there when the bedding is out.”

His voice faded, and for a moment they all just stood there looking at each other, perspiring in the sweltering heat of that August night.

“…This is a total Shangri-La,” Nino deadpanned, breaking the silence and making them laugh. Ohno went ahead to switch on the air-conditioning.

“I think this is as big as my bedroom,” said Aiba, chuckling and spinning on his heels, taking in the six- _jo_ room.

“Okay, why not we _janken_ for who gets to pick first?” suggested Sho. “I think we can lay the mattresses in an L-shape like this so no one’s head is at anybody’s feet.” Sho gestured as he squinted at the corners of the room.

They readied their hands. Aiba got to pick first. He claimed a spot in the middle of three potential bed-spaces; Sho and Jun got to be on either side of him. Ohno and Nino didn’t bother battling it out; Nino just asked Ohno if he preferred to be marginally closer to the door, Ohno shrugged and said he was fine either way. Nino smiled and took the space in question, making Jun and Ohno neighbours.

***

_Sitting in his workshop of fishing lures and pots of paint, Ohno Satoshi breathed easy in his natural habitat._

_Meticulously handling an airbrush, Ohno coloured the minnow with practiced ease, blurring hues of gold and teal to mimic life, losing himself in his craft. His labour was precise and calm, and his thrill, as he neared completion of his work, was quiet._

_It was amazing to watch. Ohno was excellent at painting lures. He was also excellent at singing and dancing, so why were his approaches to the two so different?_

_“I never thought I’d actually return to performing,” Ohno confessed. “I mean, I’m turning thirty-nine this year. I was… sixteen, when I quit. Wow.” He paused to laugh. “I liked doing stuff on stage, but I didn’t exactly like being on it. And that hasn’t changed much, to be honest.”_

_Being the focus of attention has never been Ohno’s goal. Yet, despite his nervous command of the spotlight, he is adored by it. On every stage he stands on, in whichever identity he chooses to assume, Ohno delivers. Artisan. Artiste. Airbrush gun. Microphone. Ohno is it all, wields it all, and he’s actually good at it. The amount of talent he has is frightening, and would be even more so if he weren’t so remarkably humble._

_“I’m still always asking myself why I’ve chosen to be who I am.” He folded his fingers, leant forward in his chair. “I’m still figuring it out, but in a good way. Not in a_ gah _way,” he said, scrunching up his face as he chuckled._

_“I’m past that, I think.”_

***

The second day of boot camp consisted of ten gruelling hours of _everything_ : yoga, dancing, voice lessons, an acting workshop and meetings with stylists, who touched every inch of their bodies with measuring tape. At the end of the afternoon they were whisked away to Saitama Super Arena where Octagon, the unit that had debuted two years before, were finishing off a slew of concerts throughout Japan. There they were introduced to an army of Joshima & Associates employees and got excellent seats in the stands, and although none of them completely appreciated modern _enka_ they managed to enjoy themselves. Octagon was from Kansai, like the president, and it was obvious that their talents lay more in comedy than in music.

After the concert the five got to rub shoulders with the Octagon members themselves and were officially introduced as the unnamed group that was to debut in September. They addressed the two-year-debuted group as ‘senpai’, which made them all laugh since even Jun was a decade older than Octagon’s eldest members.

“It’s okay,” said Okura Tadayoshi, who played the drums. “We’re used to contradictions here at Joshima & Associates. I mean, like — we’re ‘Octagon’, but we only have seven members.”

“Oh, and wait till you meet Evergold,” said Shibutani, one of the aforementioned eldest. “Half of them are in high school. _Infants_ , really.”

They wrapped up the day with interviews by the documentary crew, reflecting on the lessons and the concert, realising aloud that it really did take a village to produce a group. When asked about how they felt about their future as a unit, they smiled tersely and spoke of pleasing fans and doing their best, unable to give any better answers. It was too early to say.

Sho had declined to be interviewed, and stood on the other side of the cameras the whole time. Everyone thought it was weird, but Sho didn’t have to explain himself so nobody asked.

The dormitory was off-limits to the filmmakers, and the five were dropped off by a staff member before midnight. Training school was out for the summer so the other occupants of the dorm were back at their own homes. The building currently only housed the five, and they were thankful for the relative privacy.

Jun and Ohno headed straight for the showers while Aiba went on a _combini_ run, saying he was starving; Nino and Sho hung out in the lounge, catching the last quarter of News Zero.

Sho scribbled in his notepad as he watched the programme, and his smartphone was displaying the day’s entertainment headlines. Nino was sharing the sofa with him, smoking a cigarette and watching him curiously.

“You’re very in touch with the news,” Nino remarked, offering Sho a stick from his packet.

“I have my own, thanks.” Sho shook his head and patted his pocket. “I just need to jot down the highlights, hang on…”

Nino cocked his head. “Is there a particular reason you’re writing all this down? Do we have a quiz show appearance that we should be preparing for?”

Sho shrugged. “Nah. It’s habit, I guess. I’ve been doing it for years.”

Nino paused and stared, smoke swirling from his nostrils.

“So… sitting in front of the TV and taking notes from the news is something you do regularly?” Nino’s voice was full of wonder.

“It’s a thing, yeah,” Sho answered, writing furiously, eyes flicking back and forth from screen to paper. “Don’t you have a thing?”

“I do,” Nino answered smoothly.

Sho looked up a few seconds later when he realised Nino hadn’t said anything further. Nino just met him with a maddening grin.

Nino wasn't going to tell Sho what his thing was. Sho couldn’t help but laugh, shoulders shaking. He’d never met anyone like Nino. Sho had permission to know each of the members inside out, and Nino, even though not the most easily read, was the most engaging.

There was a click from behind, and the door to the room swung open, revealing Aiba.

“Is it okay if I sit with you guys?” asked Aiba, striding over, plastic bag swinging by his side.

There was only one sofa in their area of the lounge and there wasn’t a rug under the coffee table for Aiba to sit comfortably on, so Nino left his end, scooting closer to Sho to make space for Aiba but still keeping his distance. The move seemed pronounced — almost respectful — coming from Nino.

“Where’s Matsumoto-kun and Ohno-san?”

“Enjoying bath time,” Nino replied lazily.

Aiba froze. “Together?” he asked, eyes wide. “Like _together_ -together?”

Sho gaped at Aiba before exploding in laughter.

Nino calmly opened his mouth and said:

"Why don’t you go check?”

Sho howled. He couldn’t breathe.

Aiba caught onto the sarcasm and glowered at Nino. “You could’ve just said ‘no’,” he grumbled.

“I don’t know for sure, do I?” Nino shot back, eyes twinkling, sending Sho off on another laughing spell, and he clutched Nino’s forearm to make him stop the quips.

“Anyway, I didn’t know what you guys like, or if you even want to have anything before bed, but ta-dah!” Aiba said happily, divesting his bag of its contents. “We worked really hard today, we deserve this—”

Aiba picked up two cans of beer and looked at his companions imploringly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sho said, quelling his laughter and wiping his eyes. He reached out for a can. “I needed this, Aiba-kun. Thank you. You’re a godsend.”

“And you exaggerate.” Aiba laughed and handed the other beer to Nino, who stubbed out his cigarette in his personal ashtray and took the beverage in thanks.

They popped the tabs and toasted each other. Sho took a long draught and sighed, looking at Aiba. “This is so good. I think I love you.”

He’d taken another mouthful when Nino said:

“I won’t look; you guys can get in the bath together-together later.”

Sho sprayed beer all over his notebook.

“Timing, Ninomiya-kun, timing,” he choked as Aiba threw a box of tissues into his lap.

"Impeccable, if I may say so myself." Nino just smirked. “I was waiting for you to take that sip.”

They heard a padding of feet and Jun emerged into the lounge.

“I could hear you guys from the bathroom,” said Jun, grinning as he dragged a chair over from under the dining table. “Yay, beer! And ew, Sakurai-san.” Jun made a face at Sho, tapping under his own chin to mirror Sho's disarray. “Here.”

“It’s these guys’ fault,” Sho immediately said, swiping at the spot Jun was indicating. “They’re horrible. I’m usually not this slovenly, I promise.”

“‘ _Slovenly_ ’,” Aiba and Nino intoned together.

“You’re like a Japanese textbook,” teased Aiba.

“You _do_ sound like a Japanese textbook,” said Jun in realisation. “All the time. This morning you described yoga class as a ‘veritable hell’ and I was like, wow.”

They all laughed, and Sho was embarrassed. He had a fancy vocabulary, he couldn’t help but want to use it.

“Since this is getting fun, let me see if Ohno-san wants to join us.” Nino got up from his seat and headed towards the baths.

Moments later he was back, a half-naked Ohno in tow.

“Could you just - let me wear some clothes—”

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” soothed Nino. “We all know what’s under that towel already.”

“We do?” Sho attempted to lead.

“I do,” Aiba was the one to answer confidently. “And you,” he looked at Ohno, “should be very proud of it.”

Ohno covered his face with the hand that wasn’t in Nino’s, but they saw he was smiling. “I don’t care if you’ve seen everything. I’m still going to wear some clothes because _that’s what civilised people do_.”

“We’re gonna drink all your beer if you take too long,” Aiba called after him.

Jun brought another chair up to the space for Ohno, and Sho clicked off the TV. Ohno came back and was handed a beer by Aiba, and they toasted each other once Nino was comfortably back on his perch on the sofa.

“To us,” Jun said simply.

The rest echoed his call before swigging.

It was then that Aiba cleared his throat. “Sakurai-kun.” He paused. “Wait, can I call you that?”

Sho laughed and reached for a cracker. “You can call me anything you want.”

“Since we’re at it, can we just drop the honorifics?” said Nino. “We’re just, what, three years apart, right?”

They agreed, and Aiba braved once more:

“Sho-chan?”

The sudden leap towards such familiarity elicited a laugh from Sho, who nodded and indicated for Aiba to go on.

“I’ve always wondered… Why didn’t I ever see you at auditions?”

There was a hum from the other three men.

“That’s true.” Jun drew a circle with his finger, including Nino and Aiba in it. “The three of us were in the same small group during the second round of auditions, right?”

Aiba gave a nod. “I remember Ohno-san — I mean, _Ohno-kun_ , if that’s okay? Yeah? Ohno-kun — dancing in the group that went before us, too.”

Sho blinked, quite unsure of what to say. He hadn’t expected this conversation to come up so soon. “My audition. I, er…”

Nino drew a sharp intake of breath. “Wait — don’t tell me you had _no audition_?”

“I — uh, there was a meeting,” said Sho, fumbling for the truth. There really had been a meeting.

“You got in without an audition?” Jun raised his eyebrows.

Sho looked at Jun, hesitating.

“Wow. Elite,” said Ohno, admiringly, taking Sho’s silence for affirmation.

Aiba reached over to pat his thigh. “Don’t worry, we won’t be jealous of you. We’re grownups.”

“No, it’s not like that,” Sho was quick to amend. He didn’t know how to further explain himself, since he wasn’t even supposed to. He settled for:

“It was the decision of the higher-ups.”

“Elite,” the rest of them said collectively, giving him knowing looks.

Sho just returned with a weak smile. He’d misled them. And, he thought guiltily, it wasn’t for the worst.

***

_The unit was to have four guys._

_Applications were open from mid-April all through May, and auditions commenced on the fourth of June, 2016. The management whittled down 551 applicants to 20, who came back for a second round of auditions. All of them were unmarried, good-looking, clean-shaven and, most importantly, over the age of 35._

_It was vital, Joshima insisted, that these guys looked like they could be veteran stars, but weren’t. Matsuoka Masahiro, board executive and training school principal, was put in charge of selecting the final candidates. He narrowed the search down to six men, all with some sort of performing experience, and in a last interview selected the lucky four with approval from the board. The men signed their contracts separately and were to come back in mid-July for an official meeting as a group. It was a done deal._

_Joshima & Associates enjoyed a great deal of press coverage during the weeks of the contest, a degree proportionate to the amount of sleep the executives sacrificed to promote the campaign on every medium their remaining wherewithal permitted. The idea of debuting a group of idols nearing 40 was novel, and while it did create a buzz, the media’s take on the story was derisive. But to Joshima, any PR was good PR, and he was willing to take ridicule if it meant people were talking about it, albeit with the hashtag #ossanidol. (The interns tried their best to popularise #u40idol but their efforts were largely ignored by the internet.)_

_Fifth July, 2:30 PM. The agency had sent out an embargoed press release containing the names and profiles of the official winners, formally announcing a debut date, when media and marketing chief Kokubun Taichi called the office from his business luncheon, instructing the team to contact all news channels and retract the press release because they had just landed a very important deal that would bump up the number of members in the new unit to five._

***

When they arrived at the agency the next morning, Sho was immediately called into the boardroom.

Waiting for him was, literally, Joshima and his associates — vice president Yamaguchi, chief talent producer Nagase, PR head Kokubun and scary choreographer Matsuoka.

Sho had never been one of those students who got called to the principal’s office for doing something awful, but he assumed this was how it felt.

“We heard from the director that you didn’t participate in the interview yesterday,” Kokubun spoke first, leaning forward to look at Sho, who was standing at the foot of the table, feeling only apprehension.

“I’m sorry — which interview?” Sho asked. There had been a few throughout the day.

“After the concert the documentary team asked about your thoughts on becoming a group — why did you tell them you weren’t supposed to be filmed?”

“Oh.” Sho was puzzled. “If it had been an individual clip it could’ve been edited out easily and I would have agreed, but the team chose to film it with the entire group present despite their knowledge that I was given very specific instructions not to assert myself as a member of the unit, or give any opinions pertaining to the dynamics of the group. I assumed commenting in said capacity in a video recording as the one from last night would compromise the interests of both Joshima & Associates and Enta Japan with regards to my involvement in this project.”

There was a beat and Yamaguchi burst out laughing. “You’re fond of conjunctions, aren’t you?”

Sho managed to smile. “I am a journalist, yes.”

Joshima exhaled audibly, and Sho stood up straighter as he knew he was about to be addressed by the president.

“Sakurai-kun,” Joshima started, “I’m not exactly sure what you just said, but I think I catch the gist. You’re saying that you don’t completely belong to the group, that you’re just here to write the article, and because of that you can’t participate in all the activities. Right?”

“Yes, I believe that was essentially the terms of the agreement between my employer and you.”

The executives exchanged glances.

“We were ones who put that clause in,” said Kokubun very slowly. “I now see how it’s a flaw in our approach. I doubt it would be much of a problem with Enta Japan if we said you can go ahead and be, so to speak, a ‘real’ member of the group. Y’know, change the rules a bit.”

Sho blinked.

“It’s more convincing that way,” Nagase explained. “The other four aren’t supposed to know you’re, for lack of a better term, a media mole. To be exempt from things like how you were last night would just sound the alarm prematurely. We’re only intending to tell them right before the debut.”

Sho cleared his throat. “With all due respect, how would that work out? Is my voice also going to be in the single? How about all the promotional material? And attendance at press conferences? I’ll be recognised by other reporters from other publications, I’m fairly certain. They will welcome the scoop, and that will not be in the best interests of Enta Japan.” Sho left the most important words unsaid, his heart drumming in his throat, appalled at his own show of brazenness. He’d practically insinuated, in a room full of powerful men, that they only cared about their lot.

He wouldn’t be surprised if they pulled the plug on the story right now.

Licking his lips nervously, Sho got ready to apologise, only to be interrupted by Matsuoka rapping the table with his fingers.

“We won’t sabotage Enta Japan like that. It defeats the purpose of our collaboration.” Matsuoka’s expression softened, and he pushed up his black-rimmed glasses, stalling for time as he tried to find the right words.

“You work hard,” said Matsuoka at last. “You’re a journalist, trying to be an idol so you can be a journalist, so you can write your article about our guys, for our agency, for us. We’re thankful for that. We won’t take it for granted. So seriously, don’t worry about the technicalities. We’ll find a way around it. Right, Leader?”

Matsuoka looked to Joshima, who nodded.

“People quit groups, Sakurai-san,” Joshima added, his voice kind. “Some are even ejected from groups, as you must know. It sounds harsh, but at this point in time, for an un-debuted unit, no one is indispensable. We appreciate your presence, but we’ll also be able to explain your disappearance when it comes to it. We’ll take the rap. This is the first time I’m saying this to a talent, assuming I’m to treat you as one, but don’t worry, we _really_ don’t need you.”

Sho took a deep breath.

“I understand. Thank you.” Sho put on a smile. As Sakurai Sho the writer, trying to protect the publication he wrote for, he was completely satisfied with what Joshima was saying, but the words 'we really don’t need you' were hurting more than they should, especially with that added emphasis. It was… well, it was kinda fucked up.

“I’ll participate, a hundred per cent.”

***

_Now the fans were roaring, and Aiba Masaki waved to them, eliciting more feverish screams of ‘Aiba-chan’. The sequinned curtain that he’d emerged past fell at an odd angle, catching on the mic set that was strapped to his waistband, tugging him back and making him stumble. He yelped ‘nice beam!’ (his brand of swearing, a fan later explained), making the audience squeal over how cute he was, and he went on to yell about how it was so miraculous that the curtain wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t hurt, and were the fans okay? Were they still alive after he stopped all of their hearts?_

 _At this, all of the people in the room —_ all _of them — bent backwards in a pretend faint, synchronising their sighs. It would’ve been bewildering if it’d been staged elsewhere, but these were Aiba’s people. They’d been following him for years. Because of this fanbase, Joshima & Associates saw no reason to refuse him the event even though he was now exclusively and contractually theirs; he would, very likely, bring the fans over, anyhow._

_Aiba applauded at their solidarity and proceeded to perform the encore, a song called ‘Hearty Hearty Magic Heart’ which started several women screaming, “It’s the debut song! The debut song!”, and they sobbed and clutched at each other as they bobbed along to the disco beat, waving their penlights._

_This final live for his closest fans was Aiba’s swan song: his emancipation from the sheltered world of_ chika _idols, his graduation into the mainstream. And at the way Aiba was looking at the crowd, at how his voice broke in the middle of the chorus, it seemed as though Aiba was coming to terms with it in that very moment, that he would be leaving all this behind._

_For 12 years, Aiba was a charming shop assistant at a retail store by day, and four nights a week he would perform live. It was exhausting, but Aiba kept at it. And now, looking at how he had amassed more than a hundred people in a live house, no mean feat for an indies idol — it seemed like thriving on challenges was the right thing to do all along._

_When it was all over he trudged into the greenroom, peeled off his handmade costume, stared at his reflection in the mirror. His major debut was in two days. This was really the end, but also the beginning._

_“I won’t let them down,” he said, firmly but with a smile. “No regrets.”_

***

The week-long boot camp reached its midpoint, and after a warm-up in the morning they went to a recording studio to finally apply their vocals to ‘So you wanna uh-uh’ and the coupling song, ‘Knights of Love’. It took the whole day, and by 3 PM the documentary team — now more fly on the wall than invaders of privacy — decided to resume filming the following day, having little variety in the shots. Everyone heard the crew cheering as they packed up their equipment and knocked off early.

At the end of their recording session the five men were surprised by Joshima in an SUV, and he took them out to dinner at a _yakiniku_ restaurant downtown. After they were seated and waiting for their meat, the president gave them a benign smile and announced cordially:

“Your group name is ‘Questions’. Stylised ‘?'.” He brandished a pen and wrote the relevant punctuation on a napkin.

“Shachou, that’s a question mark,” Jun said in sheer disbelief.

“No way,” Aiba protested loudly, as Sho and Nino exchanged a horrified look. Ohno just stared at Joshima dumbly.

They’d all come to be quite fond of Joshima, a pleasant, unassuming man in his late forties who exuded the least presidential vibes of all the board executives. Everyone struggled to be less casual with him, but they often failed and ended up speaking their minds anyway.

“A question mark,” Jun repeated, as if he was trying to convince himself that this was all real.

“What, you guys don’t like it?” Joshima seemed genuinely perplexed.

“People will never be able to Google us,” Nino pointed out. “Have you thought of that? This is a _symbol_.”

Joshima shrugged. “I thought it was cool.”

Aiba eyed Joshima suspiciously. “Shachou, did you speak with anyone else about the group name?”

Joshima turned shifty-eyed and became very invested in his glass of iced water.

“Aha!” Aiba stood up, pointing, and Ohno had the sense to drag him back down and swat his head, saying this was the president Aiba was talking to.

A wait staff arrived with trays of marinated meat, giving them a mild reprieve from the _nonsense_ that was going on, but when the staff left, Sho decided to speak up.

“Shachou, I know this might not be my place, but could we have a name that has more propinquity, at least?”

“Propin-what?” Joshima asked as Aiba made a face and muttered to Ohno how ‘propin-whatever’ would _not_ be acceptable as well because it sounded too much like pretentious Pokemon food.

“I think he means a name the masses can relate to,” Nino translated helpfully. When Sho looked at him in surprise and approval, Nino winked and said he once scored full marks on a Japanese test.

Wordlessly, Joshima started barbecuing the meat. The five of them waited, watching the grill sizzle and pop.

“‘La Tormento Steelo', ‘Transtormers’ and ‘TAKA x YUUJI’ are all strange names, aren’t they?” Joshima said at last. “And they did really well. Our subsequent groups… not so well. So I think it’s better if it doesn’t… I think it’s better if we return to odder naming conventions.”

It was then they realised that Joshima had really put quite a lot of thought into ‘?’, and they’d hurt his feelings a little.

“How about ‘Arashi’?” Joshima suddenly asked, grabbing a fresh napkin and writing the character on it. “It starts with an ‘A’, and that’s good, like you’re the forerunners of the industry because, you know, first alphabet and all. Good sound, too. Very imposing. And traditional! Fits your image.”

Holding out the makeshift manuscript like a peace offering, Joshima gave them a brave grin, but it wasn’t enough to fade the grimace on their faces. Still, Jun took the napkin and studied it before passing it on to Nino, who passed it to Sho, who slid it over to Aiba.

Aiba stared at it for a moment.

“No offence, Shachou, but ‘Arashi’ sounds kind of in-your-face for five guys in their late thirties. It screams ‘ojisan’ — and I know we’re not trying to completely avoid that label, but still,” Aiba said with cool finality before handing the napkin to Ohno.

With his experience, Aiba was the de facto authority in their group on being an idol. He wasn’t the best dancer (that was easily Ohno), he wasn’t the best singer (that was also Ohno), nor was he the most good-looking (they were all very pretty, especially when their age was taken into account), but he exuded the most idol-like vibes. He knew what it meant to be in demand and what entailed meeting said demand; he knew his best angles, knew how to cover up his mistakes just by smiling and pointing into an imaginary camera, something the other four couldn’t entirely grasp (though Jun was coming dangerously close, while Nino preferred to wink).

He was also the one who knew exactly what he wanted from the debut, right from the day he auditioned. It lent the other four a great deal of moral support, this knowledge that at least one of them had a clear direction for the group. Aiba wasn’t exactly the leader; he was more of a pathfinder, the one who shone the light on the safe footholds of the craggy idol landscape they were trying so hard to navigate in the dark — they truly had little idea, for the most part, and were all thankful Aiba was there to hold their hands.

And to shield them from stupid group names.

Joshima calmly flipped the singing meat onto their uncooked sides, not meeting any of their gazes. “Well then. What do you think about the name, Ohno-san? You haven’t spoken much.”

Ohno tilted his head as he stared at the single character on the napkin and, muttering a ‘’scuse me’, reached for the pen Joshima had left on the table. He wrote, very carefully, another character that had several more strokes than ‘Arashi’.

“‘Akatsuki’,” said Ohno, displaying his beautiful penmanship. “Still kind of weird, still starts with ‘A’, still Japanese and therefore traditional?”

There was a pronounced pause, then everyone reacted all at once.

“Oh, my God,” gushed Sho, vibrating in his seat. “You’re a genius. Ohno-kun’s a genius, you guys.”

“Marry me,” Aiba said solemnly. “You just saved us from being the butt of many jokes and I shall repay that debt by giving you my body.”

“Can I have your autograph?” Nino pulled out another napkin from the holder and waved it under Ohno’s nose.

“I think you should be our leader,” Jun said excitedly to Ohno, who was just looking bashful at the response. “Shachou, shouldn’t he be our leader?”

“Yes! Why not!” Joshima cried in glee, rescuing several pieces of meat from charred doom and dumping them all onto Ohno’s plate. “Akatsuki! I like it! Daybreak. Darkness before the morning light. That’s a really fitting name! Your single is called ‘So you wanna uh-uh’ after all, and that’s a mysterious time, perfect to uh-uh. Yes! The people at Music Station won’t have to hide their snickering when they announce your name, not like when BABAND went on, Lord, that was brutal…”

All conversation seemed to screech to a halt as they registered what the president had said.

“ _Music Station_?!”

“You booked us a gig on M-Ste?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Ohno-kun, I thought you said we had to speak nice to the president? But seriously, Shachou, Music Station?!”

“Just checking, Shachou — this is THE Music Station, right? Not an obscure CD store?”

“…Nino.”

Joshima held up his hands, asking them all to calm down. “We’ve been negotiating it for a while, they said yes today, but it’s still not set in stone. But it’s, maybe, 97 per cent confirmed? Yes.”

“I don’t know whether to be happy or terrified,” said Jun.

“I’m shitting my pants thinking about it,” Aiba confessed, then jerked his head in realisation. “Sorry, Shachou, that was rude.”

Joshima laughed and waved Aiba's comment away. “I’m glad you’re all excited about it.”

Sho had gone quiet, and Nino nudged him in the ribs.

“It’s okay, we’re all shitting our pants too,” Nino whispered. “It’s a huge deal.”

Sho mustered a smile. “Yeah.”

He couldn’t bear to tell Nino he wasn’t going to be part of it.

 

***

_Enta Japan Holdings owned the eponymous Enta Japan, the nation’s largest circulated music entertainment magazine. It was the type of magazine that caused secret wars amongst artistes who coveted the cover special; anyone who was somebody in the music business was also in that book._

_It was therefore natural that Joshima & Associates wanted their newest, absolutely unique idol unit to be showcased. The publication had already picked up on the hype, and Kokubun was more than happy to meet the executives over lunch to discuss the type of feature that was most suitable for the group._

_Kokubun was taken aback, however, when Enta Japan explained that they and all their subsidiaries were going to cease publication. They were going full-on digital, focusing their efforts on the web version of Enta Japan since sales all across print media platforms were steadily falling. Enta-Online was to be launched in September, and they needed a good cover story to satisfy their fans. They’d found a most interesting angle to the U-40 Male Idol Contest story, one that would be in tune with their engagement analytics and could help secure online readership._

_“A ground-zero piece,” said the Enta Japan representative._

_Kokubun frowned. “You don’t mean a tag-along? We’re already planning a similar project on video.”_

_“Oh, it’s more than that. We’re thinking an investigative, tell-all feature that would involve a reporter being part of the entire debuting process. It’ll all depend on your concession, of course, but we hope to put our guy in your new unit and have him actually_ be _an idol. An experience intern, if you will. It’ll be great if he could really get to know the members as well, find out what they’re thinking, their backgrounds, the works. Of course, we’ll take him back before the actual debut. Won’t cost you a cent.”_

_Kokubun jumped onboard immediately. It was a terrific idea, and best of all, it was free. Yay journalism._

_They laid some rules: the reporter would be undercover, which meant the members weren’t privy to his real motives (it’d make the writing more accurate, and per the artiste contract the agency had full discretion to allow something like this), the story would be exclusive and Joshima & Associates would have a regular column with Enta Japan if it garnered enough traffic._

_Three days later, Enta Japan emailed that they’d found someone willing to do the job. His name was Sakurai Sho; he wrote for Enta-Biz, their business and media analysis subsidiary; was 37 years old; unmarried; worked out regularly and happened to be rather handsome._

_The next week, he was called in along with the rest of the members, who had no clue they were initially supposed to have been a group of four._


	2. Chapter 2

“That’s fucking rude,” Nino said, looking over Jun’s shoulder at the screen of the tablet that was showing the main page of a Twitter account.

“It is,” agreed Jun, wrinkling his nose. “She’s obviously referring to us, isn’t she?”

“Oh yeah,” said Aiba grimly, reading the tweet upside down. “Take a screenshot, her management will be tearing it down soon when our interns send them a friendly fuck-you.”

Jun obediently captured and saved the image.

“She called us a ‘bunch of old geezers wasting air-time for the new quarter’,” said Ohno, shaking his head as he read off the screen. “We’re only appearing in three programmes.”

“Of which one is M-Ste. She’s just jealous,” said Aiba. “It’s too bad for her, though. She wasn’t the one who got her group into that scandal.”

Sho shrugged. “No excuse. She should’ve been more professional, she’s in the public eye.”

Aiba nodded. “Yeah. Kids these days.”

Everyone stopped to consider Aiba’s choice of words.

“What? She’s _seventeen_ , you guys. I could be her dad. _We all_ could be her dad.”

Reluctantly, they all murmured in agreement and Sho said, comfortingly:

“It’s okay. Being _ojisan_ ’s part of your — I mean, our identity too.”

They all laughed and Sho got lightly socked in the arm, and although he’d indeed intended for it to be a joke, it didn’t stop the complicated feelings from brimming over as he computed the words leaving his mouth.

Dread, Sho figured, was the main emotion. It was the manifestation of his brain’s response to the whole thing. He knew he’d eventually have to come clean about how he was masquerading as a guy who wanted to be an idol, and he felt like shit about it. He didn’t know which was worse, now — that he wasn’t a hundred per cent committed to either being a journalist or being an idol, or that he was just a liar and a fake, albeit under the instigation of his employer.

That said, Enta Japan didn’t force him into it; they’d asked and he’d said yes, thought it would be stimulating for his intellect and broaden his journalistic horizons, all that jazz. He loved what he did, writing business features, and getting to be in the thick of things, seeing it from a whole new perspective and then being gifted the opportunity to write about it — Sho had almost salivated at the prospect, he wasn’t going to lie.

What Sho hadn’t expected was to fall in love with the perspective itself.

It was insane. Sho had been aware of the downward spiral. They’d done a presenter workshop a couple days back, taking turns to host a live show and stuff like that, and Sho had aced it. He liked using words; he was good at it, that’s why he became a writer. But now he was making people react to him real-time _with the same words_. It made him realise he wasn’t just eloquent on paper. He wasn’t a natural at performing, he was self-aware enough to see that, but he wasn’t completely crap at being entertaining.

And Sho didn’t do half-assed. He hated half-assed. If he was going to try something new, which he was usually open to unless they involved high places, he’d try his damnedest to be good at it. He didn’t do half-assed, because half-assed didn’t make him feel like he’d conquered anything, and Sho, perverse as it sounded in his head, relished power; not the power that came with lording over people — that wasn’t real power anyway — but the power that came with gaining knowledge or a skill. He craved it, was probably addicted to it, and it made him excellent at a great deal of things. (Except cooking. He had little interest in that art.)

But this felt half-assed. It shouldn’t have, because ultimately he was still a reporter and he knew it, he really did, but it felt so _right_ , with these guys. Sho liked them. He respected them because deep down Sho knew he, manic planner that he was, would never be able to put down everything — job security was the first thing that came to mind — and take that leap of faith. Carpe diem, YOLO — they were all that. They were fucking brave, that’s what they were. And to top it off they were great people.

He was privileged; sailing into the project just like that, being who he got to be, with them. It made him almost angry that someone like him was here; there had been tons of people who wanted to be part of this, and here he was, robbing them. He was an undeserving villain, yet he wasn’t, because he wasn’t really part of it.

Sho was exhausted and thoroughly confused. Was he supposed to be enjoying this as much as he did? Was what he was feeling fake, if he was actually really, as Nagase had said, ‘a media mole’? How would the group react if he had to confess his true intentions to them? Were those intentions even true? Could he just slip away one night while they were sleeping and have the management face the music for him? No; that was cowardly. And definitely half-assed.

Standing there with them, huddled around Jun’s tablet and looking at their concerned faces, sharing the same worries yet feeling guilty for it being permissible to him, Sho realised he’d really come to dislike trigger-moments like these — moments that made him want to run away from it all because his head was exploding with thoughts and his heart with emotions.

“Sho-kun? You there?”

Sho snapped out of his reverie, finally noticing Ohno tapping his shoulder.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Sho took a breath, trying to pick up the bits of what his subconscious had recorded from the ongoing conversation. Jun had said something, then Ohno said something, asked for his opinion…

“Do you think we should report the tweet?” reiterated Ohno, saving Sho from the fruitless retrieval.

“Oh, no, no,” Sho shook his head. “Not ourselves, anyway. With its absurdity, the management should already be picking it up. Look at all the reactions.”

“Absurd though it is… The tweet got 200-over likes,” Nino pointed out. “People actually agree with her.”

“Fanboys,” Aiba said immediately. “They can be such groupies. You know that.”

Then there was a funny noise from Jun, and he said:

“Guys, look. This comedian replied her.” Jun tapped the new tweet. “‘People steal jobs every day, the industry’s like this, deal with it’,” he read.

Jun looked up at the rest. “He wasn’t really defending us.”

“His account is verified, too.” Sho sighed. “Where’s the self-policing?”

“Noooo,” Aiba cried. “133 likes in 55 seconds! _Stop it, Internet!_ ”

“So… people already hate us before they know us, huh?” Ohno was sporting a sour look, and it looked foreign on him.

“Okay, no more Twitter,” Sho said, taking the tablet out of Jun’s hands and closing the flap of its cover. “We are here to work. We can’t let this affect us.”

There came a knock on the door and Yone, their newly-appointed chief manager, opened the door a couple of inches to say:

“Are you guys decent?”

“Yes,” they said in unison, breaking out of their circle, and Yone, whose actual name was Yonekura Ryoko, opened the door wide to enter the changing room.

“Just got a call from the office about a tweet Valerie Inamoto posted that was borderline defamatory about you guys, so we’re taking action,” Yone said, waving her phone at them. “Also, one of the lights in the studio blew so they’re changing the bulb. You guys have to wait a while longer.”

She halted, blinking, trying to recall something. “What else — oh, right. Sakurai-kun, a word.”

Yone disappeared into the corridor once more, and Sho followed her as nonchalantly as he could, knowing the other men were also trying their best to keep from paying the singling-out too much attention. It was probably creepy to say out loud, but Sho loved them for it. All their consideration, maturity and respect — even if they still thought it was because he had ‘elite admission’ into the agency.

“Sakurai-kun, I know of your… situation,” said Yone, once they were far enough from the door. They stopped in a private corner outside a supplies closet, and Yone sucked air through her teeth. “I was asked to check on you. To see if you’re okay with this.”

Sho stared back into Yone’s large, beseeching eyes. “I’m sorry — ‘this’?”

“Oh, right. Those guys in there, they’ve basically signed their lives to Joshima & Associates, but you haven’t. Because you’ll actually be in this PV, we’re going to have your image on record and, well, we might very likely end up using it, if your departure from this… _experiment_ is timely and you leave right before the debut press conference. We have to release the promotional material earlier than that, you see — oh, but of course you see; sorry, _you’re_ the press, I’m speaking to you like you don’t know this already.”

Sho realised Yone was talking about copyright. For his face.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“We were thinking, if it were okay with you, of course…” Yone proceeded to pull a folder out of her briefcase.

“Sorry it wasn’t prepared earlier. We only realised this morning that it wasn’t included in the agreement with Enta Japan. If you could give us your formal permission, it’ll be great.”

Sho received the sheet of paper and sighed inwardly. Another trigger moment. What joy.

He quickly scanned the document for discrepancies, found none and, very professionally, asked for a pen.

***

_The quaint, little cafe was dimly lit, framed stained glass on its walls and African tapestry suspended from the ceiling, all its seats used piano chairs. The soundtrack was an eclectic mix of Tchaikovsky, bossa nova and reggae. Behind the stout mahogany bar stood a massive cabinet that housed hand coffee grinders and endless rows of fine china, and from one of the higher shelves Matsumoto Jun selected a cup of celadon porcelain, eagerly expounding on its history._

_Brevity was not Matsumoto’s strong suit; he went on about the cup for several minutes, and the owner, a retired educator who has asked not to be named, left the kitchen just to tell Matsumoto to talk about something else. Matsumoto, unabashed, retorted that the owner, too, often waxed lyrical about crockery._

_They were very close; the owner had been Matsumoto’s high school music teacher, had employed Matsumoto part-time while he was still in university. After graduation, Matsumoto pursued a career as a barista, even winning an international award. When it was pointed out that Matsumoto was therefore an unlikely candidate for a pop idol audition, the owner laughed out loud and said:_

_“This man has too many passions; he’s always struggling to decide on which one to make his lifelong dream. Being a performer? Took him long enough. All that time and money spent on dance lessons.”_

_Lips twitching, Matsumoto thanked his teacher and started a conversation about fate and affinity and human relationships, getting so worked up at some point that his eyes misted over. It was hilarious, but also endearing._

_Brevity was not Matsumoto’s strong suit. Soulfulness was._

***

On the penultimate day of boot camp, Music Station called to cancel. They’d put Valerie Inamoto’s group, Sweetpuss, on the billing instead.

The TV producers had found out about the online dispute and, though they didn’t come clean about it, were more than willing for their programme to play vehicle to any fanning of flames. It was all for ratings, explained Yamaguchi, who delivered the news. Just a week before, one of the Sweetpuss members had gotten herself into an adultery scandal. Given that it hadn’t abated yet, and that Inamoto herself had made an apology and deleted her offensive tweet, coupled with them having just released their newest single, lots of antis would be watching Music Station so they could shame them in real-time, while a legion of Sweetpuss supporters would surge forward in defence. The producers jumped at the chance to have Sweetpuss on.

“If anyone asks how you know all this, you didn’t hear it from me,” Yamaguchi warned.

The good thing was, being idols in their thirties meant that disappointment felt a lot less bitter than if they had been in their teens, so the five — now officially ‘Akatsuki’ — took it in stride. They still had a couple of post-debut jobs lined up. They went about their business as usual, having lessons, remembering lyrics, getting to know each other better, being followed by the film crew and talking about All Their Feelings Re: Their Debut.

It was only when they retired to the dormitory that night that Jun broached the subject with Sho. They’d been the only ones in the bedroom, and Sho was hammering away on his laptop while Jun was thumbing through the minutes of a meeting they’d had with Yone earlier that day.

“Hey, Sho-san. Can I talk to you about something?”

Sho’s fingers paused over his keyboard as he turned to Jun. Seeing how serious the younger man was, Sho gave him his full attention and folded the screen down.

Jun took this as his cue to proceed. “Sorry to just sort of dump this on you, but I’ve got this feeling that people haven’t seen what we are and already they’re not taking us seriously. I thought the _ojisan_ idol thing was just a phase, you know, something people outside of the industry were laughing about, but it seems to be escalating into this joke that’s even affecting how people in the industry see us. That’s unfair.”

“Is this about M-Ste bailing on us?” Sho asked to confirm.

Jun shrugged. “It’s about everything that’s happened. The Twitter thing, too. Those comments. Also, if M-Ste thought we were good, they’d still have picked us over Sweetpuss. Fuck, that name is hard to say without blushing. Anyway, it was novelty versus scandal, and don’t tell me novelty wins no points for high viewership.”

“I see where you’re coming from,” said Sho, crossing his legs on his futon. He was aware that he wasn’t going to be affected by the outcome of anything that came Akatsuki’s way, good or bad. But he was here to immerse himself in an experience and see things the way these guys saw it; he had to empathise with Jun. It was actually his job.

Sho steeled himself and pushed his journalist self and all its attached reservations to the farthest reaches of his mind. It came easy.

“I think we’ve been branded already, unfortunately. The agency’s trying to be very clear about where we stand, with all the stuff they’ve been telling the press, but most people see us as too-old idol wannabes who think they can cross over to comedy with identity alone. To make matters worse, the musicians don’t take idols seriously in the first place, the idols consider us second-class, the comedians don’t think we’re funny. We’re dealing with a lot—”

Sho paused as Aiba, Nino and Ohno entered the room, giggling about _takoyaki_ or something, but they stopped short when they caught sight of the other two seemingly having a heart-to-heart.

“I’m perfectly cool with them joining in,” Jun informed Sho.

With a crook of his fingers Sho beckoned the others over. “We’re about to bitch about the talent industry, any of you care to participate?”

Despite Sho’s choice of words, they talked far into the night about expectations, seizing opportunities, what they wanted to do as a group and how to do it, and throughout that whole time, as if he’d hypnotised himself, Sho completely forgot he was a journalist. For those blissful hours Akatsuki was his; he didn’t have to hide who he was — he was Sakurai Sho the idol-to-be, and as he looked at the men sitting around him, talking to him, calling him by his first name, he realised he was not just their colleague or their friend. There wasn’t really a label for it — ‘comrade’ was kind of cheesy — but Sho knew that they were in this together, at least for as long as the circumstances allowed him to be, and that was okay.

***

_There was a problem._

_They’d realised it towards the end of the week-long idol boot camp — Sakurai Sho, their fake-idol journalist spy, was fitting in too well._

_At some point, Nagase and vice president Yamaguchi Tatsuya, who were most involved in producing the agency’s talents, were brought into the studio where, after being greeted by the five, they observed the group taking a break._

_“Right?” Matsuoka probed after a few minutes, eyebrows raised. “Don’t tell me this isn’t going to sell more than novelty.”_

_Apparently, what the executives saw wasn’t a post-youth group of men who were trying to be idols; they saw a group of talented individuals horsing around, cracking jokes and cackling, getting along a lot better with each other than any of the other groups did._

_They were almost 40, yes, but they didn’t behave like it, which meant there was that famous ‘gap’ that the Japanese public adored, and above all these guys were_ relatable _, and that was what society craved now._

_The agency associates knew innately that removing any of the members would upset the balance of the group’s curious dynamic; curious because these guys had only known each other a week and already they were acting like best friends, curious because they themselves appeared to be so unschooled in the logic of unfamiliarity. You couldn’t stage things like these, and the executives knew._

_In retrospect, it was most likely the conditions of their conceptualisation that instantly awakened a survivors-band-together instinct in all the men — the thing that most surprised Yamaguchi and Nagase was that Sakurai seemed to possess that instinct too._

_“You think Enta Japan would…” Yamaguchi mused, folding his arms._

_Nagase shook his head, not in dissent but in wonder. “We could ask.”_


	3. Chapter 3

The last day of boot camp found them in the media and marketing department standing side by side, sans film crew; Ohno was in the middle, flanked by Jun and Aiba on his right and Sho and Nino on his left. Their talk the night before had led to them finding out that they all had the desire to take charge of their idol identity (while still respecting the artiste contract, of course) — and they decided to tell their bosses about it.

Ohno cleared his throat.

“We’d like to ask for permission to launch an online campaign.”

Kokubun stared. “What for?”

Ohno blinked a few times, then looked at Sho, who stepped up.

“We wish to connect with people — potential fans — in a more personal way. Show them who we are, bare-faced. We’ll take vlogs, host live streams, stage hashtag parties on Twitter. Let the masses hear our voices.”

“We’ve considered how this might overlap with the documentary, content-wise,” said Nino, “but more than take away from it, we hope to do launch our campaign in a way that will complement it.”

“It’ll also be a good way to build hype for our first press appearance,” Jun added.

“ _And_ ,” Aiba jumped in, “we can help promote the other groups as well, if we can collaborate with them in videos. Imagine this — playing _babanuki_ with BABAND, making Old Maid fashionable again.”

Sho nodded. “In the long run, we can even launch an exclusive paid service for people who want to see more content.”

Kokubun made a gesture for them to wait and paged Joshima, who arrived at the office several seconds later.

“Leader, these guys are asking to promote themselves on the internet,” Kokubun explained, expression blank.

Joshima made some amused noises and bobbed his head. “Winning the hearts of the internet is not a bad idea. What do you think, Taichi-kun?” He looked at Kokubun and broke into a grin. “I, for one, think it’s brilliant.”

Kokubun turned to the five men.

“You have the Wi-Fi password, so.”

They couldn’t believe how easy-going their management was, but then they remembered that these were the guys who let Onda Takuma break his contract to go build schools in Africa. Cheering, they proceeded to negotiate with Joshima and Kokubun on the support they hoped to get from the agency. The documentary team, being in-house, could very well assist them without additional cost, though to lend a personal touch to the videos, they would be producing and editing them themselves. (Sho and Jun were conveniently proficient in video-editing, and Nino very likely had the aptitude for it.) They also needed the agency’s help to negotiate the licensing of (their own) music for use on their channel, and also collaborations with other Joshima & Associates artistes. Kokubun and Joshima readily agreed.

With this new development, there wasn’t going to be a last day of boot camp. To save the hassle of commuting, they were going to stay at the dormitory to create as much content as they could before the debut press conference that was happening in three weeks.

They worked relentlessly, launching ‘Akatsuki Official’ on several social media platforms that very day with a YouTube video that introduced them all. It was a teaser montage of their headshots and off-camera photos from their promotional video shoot, put together by Sho to an instrumental version of ‘So you wanna uh-uh’ Nino had created on Garageband, and Aiba had the genius idea to make their official hashtag a blatant catcall to their target demographic — #showyourmumthis. With the help of some furious retweeting by Aiba’s fans and the agency’s interns, #showyourmumthis trended for two hours that evening on both Twitter and YouTube (Facebook was a little behind; they blamed it on the audience and algorithm).

The producer of their documentary, a guy they’d come to know as Bussan, was enthusiastic about the project because it meant his film was now not only about show business, but also included the clever use of new media by ‘that ojisan boyband’. He volunteered his equipment and his team’s expertise if it was needed; the men accepted the offer for their first ever challenge video — Aiba’s brainchild, the Old Maid collab with BABAND.

Meeting BABAND was interesting; the ladies had all played breeches roles in the Takarazuka Revue, and they happened to be taller than all the Akatsuki members. Their leader had a dry wit and had no qualms about making jokes about all their impending middle-age crises and what it entailed. In fact, the men were trying to keep up with the coherency of BABAND’s discourse; the ladies were exceptionally gifted at continuing conversation, having two decades of performing live in their repertoire.

That night, Jun brewed them coffee as they struggled to finish editing the Old Maid showdown; all of them had grasped the basics of Adobe Premiere and After Effects by now, and were editing the hour-long footage in parts. The best time to upload was on a weekday after school let out, but seeing that it was the summer holidays, any time was a good time.

The week flew past, and they enjoyed little sleep as they fulfilled their target of uploading a video a day. They were gaining subscribers and followers at an encouraging rate, and the agency was very impressed, and very glad.

***

One day more. _I thought about how that’s the name of a song, and how there’s a line about finding out what God has in store._

_I couldn’t relate because this purgatory was self-prescribed._

_That morning, I chose to be a journalist because the familiarity of writing proffered some escape._

_I switched on the coffee machine and it made me a drink from the arabica I’d gotten from Matsujun’s ex-boss. I moved the penlight from Aiba’s concert the night before off my laptop, coaxed my computer out of sleep mode. I opened the draft of Nino’s interview, started working on it. A while into editing the piece I got an email from Satoshi-kun, telling me he’d painted me a lure. He ended the message with:_

_“Tomorrow, we become Akatsuki.”_

_‘We.’ He didn’t specify. It was loaded. I didn’t mind. It disrupted the calm of my morning. I didn’t mind that either. I was in purgatory — I was supposed to be expiating the tomfoolery of my romance with entertainment. Or perhaps I was indeed meant for the stage, and this was me having to struggle with leaving life as I knew it behind._

_The truth was, I wasn’t as brave as the other guys. I realised, perhaps too late, that I wished to be. Perhaps that was why I tried so hard at the dancing, the singing, the workshops. I wanted to live up to the Sakurai Sho I was creating. I wanted to fit in with them, to be the kind of person who entertained the idea of being an idol at the age of 37._

_But I’m not that kind of person. I’ve had a plan for my life since I was in junior high, and being an idol isn’t part of the blueprint. Being an idol means struggling in a foreign world, having to learn a new brand of business etiquette and jargon, paying a price for privacy and being promised nothing._

_Did I love it? Could I love it enough? Could I survive it?_

_I slammed the laptop shut and cursed. I also threw something on the floor. It broke. I later realised it was the penlight._

_You probably know me if you’re reading this. You’ve seen me on the internet, we might’ve had an online conversation._

_Perhaps I'm now odious in your eyes._

_I’m a real person, here on the other side of affection, judgement, apathy. And I was angry at the circumstances, at my stupidity of agreeing to participate in the project and then becoming enamoured with it. I was angry that the onus was on me to make a decision that was larger than what I had signed up for._

_Then I thought of the four wonderful, kind, generous people that I had come to meet, and wondered what it'd be like if they were out of reach._

_The key to heaven’s door was warm in my hand. By the time this is published, you’d have found out what I did with it._

***

Their first live stream was conducted after they hit 1000 subscribers on YouTube. Jun had suggested they do the ‘Google Yourself’ tag video, and it should’ve sounded some alarms for Sho when Kokubun came up with ‘Google Us Along With Us’ during an input meeting with his creative team, tweaking the rules so that the other members Googled a member with him facing the camera, making the highlight of it his reaction while the audience joined in. But Sho had been so absorbed in entertaining the audience that it didn’t occur to him how potentially suicidal it was until Nino said:

“Sho-chan, I see you were a reporter in a past life.”

Nino had this way of talking that betrayed nothing, but Sho could see an odd flicker behind his eyes as he let himself say the words. They’d Googled Nino already, and though they’d been hopeful about unearthing some embarrassing photos (or information, at least) from Nino’s stint as a child actor and model in the ‘90s, all they found in the first 30 hits was another guy named Ninomiya Kazunari who lived in the US and owned a magic supplies store, cueing a lot of jokes about Nino setting the bar really high.

“Wow, it’s Enta-Biz!” Ohno marvelled as they scrolled through the page. “They’re owned by Enta Japan, right?”

“I’m surprised you know,” Nino teased, jabbing Ohno in the side. “I thought your reading diet consisted mainly of fishing magazines.”

Staring into the lenses, Sho forced a smile, regretting being blindsided by Nino’s lack of search results. He’d remained tight-lipped about what he’d ‘used to do’ for a living before he joined the agency; the others never straight up asked, and let him lead them away from the topic whenever it came close to be discussed. They were just that way, conscientious about boundaries, making it easy for him to not be forthcoming; now, though, with the cameras rolling, with the audience watching live on the other side of the internet, Sho could only laugh and nod as the others found the incriminating byline, which, unfortunately, had his picture attached.

“‘ _Dan_ ’ — wait, this has gotta be read _dantou_. ‘ _Dantou yori hana_ : why the lives of celebrities interest us more than the elections’,” Jun read before praising Sho on the multiple wordplays in the title.

“Right, now that we’ve stood witness to Sho-chan’s literary prowess, tweet us,” Nino directed to the camera, “and we’ll give you a shout-out!”

Aiba was in charge of reading the tweets, and he read one from a viewer who said she was Sho’s greatest fan, had found Sho’s (locked) Facebook account and was sending him a friend request. Sho thanked @shibata_rie for her support, though his mind barely registered what he was saying as his heart thrashed inside his gut, wondering if anyone out there was digging up information that he, in fact, was _still_ employed at Enta-Biz.

Aiba was next, and Sho tried to be as invested as he could in the jokes the others made about the weird transparent costume Aiba had worn for his first ever concert in a Makuhari discotheque. 45 minutes later the live stream was over, they bid goodbye to their fans (which they now had, for real), and their small talk petered out as they became engrossed in the task of keeping the loaned equipment. The documentary team was still there, and the lights and all the peripherals belonged to their department, which meant their wrap up would be delayed if the men tarried.

Then the team left and they were alone in the dance studio. Sho suddenly became self-conscious, and rightly so, because he realised the other four were standing _around_ him with strange looks on their faces. The mirrors made the room more capacious than it really was, and Sho felt tiny as Ohno stepped forward, scratched his nose, and looked up.

“Sho-kun. We want to tell you something.”

They knew. Shit. They knew.

Ohno took a deep breath.

“…I’m sorry. Matsujun?”

Ohno wasn’t very good with uncomfortable situations, Sho was aware, but suspense was a bitch.

“I Googled you,” Jun blurted out. He flushed. “A couple of days ago. Not on purpose. For research.”

Sho nodded, very slowly. It made sense. Jun had been the one who suggested the ‘Google Yourself’ tag.

“You found out I worked at Enta-Biz,” stated Sho, voice neutral.

“Yes, but it wasn’t like I - I…” Jun started stammering, which was odd for him, because Jun was always focused and smooth and, especially when the cameras were rolling, kind of princely.

“‘It wasn’t like _we_ ’, Matsujun,” Aiba said quietly. He looked at Sho. “You and Nino and Leader were in the room editing or something. Matsujun and I were brainstorming in the lounge and we saw that article you wrote. We were really impressed you were a reporter.”

“It shed some light on why you’re so good at analysing us.” Jun sounded normal again. “And the media, and the industry. At first we just assumed that you _used to_ write for Enta-Biz. We didn’t pay much attention to it.”

“Until the next day, when Aiba and I went to download some mockups of our posters for the YouTube end card, and Yone let us sort of scavenge through the files unsupervised,” said Nino, and suddenly Sho knew what they saw.

“It was just four of us, mostly. You’d been Photoshopped away. The original photos with you were in a separate folder. We asked Yone about it and she was so shifty about it, we knew something was wrong.”

Nino’s expression was unreadable. Sho caught sight of himself in the mirrors. He was looking rather pale.

“It was weird,” said Aiba, “but we had no explanation for it until Leader and I went to the conference room yesterday evening to borrow the whiteboard for the Pictionary challenge and we accidentally overheard Shachou asking Kokubun-san to negotiate a deal with Enta Japan ‘for Sakurai-kun to join Akatsuki’, but Kokubun-san was arguing a little, saying you had to be asked first, and before that the members had to be told that you were a journalist here to write about us.”

Aiba was sweating in spite of the air-conditioning. Sho could see he’d been the first to figure it out.

“We didn’t mean to have a meeting behind your back,” Ohno finally spoke again. “But we needed to come to a consensus that we trust you.”

Sho could almost hear the scratching vinyl sound effect as his thought processes slowed to a halt. They what?

“That’s what we want to tell you,” said Jun, nodding. “We trust you.”

“No matter what you’re here for,” said Aiba.

Nino just quirked his lips in a smile.

Sho bit his lip, inhaled, exhaled. He didn’t know what to say. He was moved, he felt a fierce fondness for these men, he felt guilt, he wanted to crawl into a hole, he wanted to cry.

“I’m sorry.”

Immediately there was murmuring and patting on his shoulder and the shaking of heads.

“You never lied about it,” Nino pointed out. “You went around it, beat around the bush, let us believe in what we assumed, but you’ve never lied straight to our faces. We trust you to be as ethical in your writing as you’ve been in your interactions with us.”

There was a lot of nodding from the other three.

Shuddering from the release of it all, Sho asked:

“Does the management know you know?” His voice came out raspy.

“We wanted to tell them after we told you,” answered Ohno swiftly.

Then there was silence and a palpable uncertainty and an elephant in the room. In every mirror Sho saw himself and the other four, starkly different in purpose, even though they were standing in that very studio where they had spent hours and days working towards the same goal.

“Would you join us, though?” Aiba was the one to venture.

Sho found the courage to meet Aiba’s eyes. “I don’t know… if I’m allowed to.”

Aiba shook his head, came up closer to Sho, sighed. “What do _you_ want, Sho-chan? If you were allowed to.”

Sho couldn’t answer. It was frustrating because usually, Sho was anything but indecisive.

“Look. I have an idea.” Jun gave Sho a reassuring smile. “You’re here to write about us, right? How about we give you exclusive scoop to a part of our lives outside of this - this boot camp? One that only you — not the documentary people — are privy to? This way you can really write about us. Fulfil your mission and all that. I’m sure Enta Japan would be super pleased if it’s exclusive.”

Sho heard what Jun wasn’t saying. Enta Japan would be more inclined to let Sho stay with Joshima & Associates if Sho delivered his end of the deal with flying colours. And it’d also give Sho time to think about what he truly wanted.

Sho suddenly had a flashback to Jun being protective of Ohno on their first day of boot camp, not wanting him to be exposed to the film crew. Now, it was Sho’s turn to be protected from his own apprehension.

“Oooh, great idea,” Aiba said cheerily. “I’m having that concert for my fan club; you should come.”

“I only have my apartment to offer,” drawled Nino. “And that’s me being generous.”

They all laughed, and Ohno gamely invited Sho to the bait and tackle shop he co-owned with a relative.

“To be honest, I was rather disappointed to find out you aren’t elite at all,” Aiba confessed, lightly slapping Sho’s arm with the back of his fingers.

“In Sho-kun’s defence, he’s still here under special circumstances, and he’s worked as hard as us, maybe more,” said Jun.

“He’s an elite reporter,” agreed Ohno, circling his arm around Sho’s shoulders and steering him towards the door. This was Nino’s cue to grab Jun and Aiba and herd them towards the exit as well, saying loudly that Sho had to buy them all supper.

As Aiba bumped shoulders with him and put a hand on his hip as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Sho caught a glimpse of their reflection in the mirrors. They had lined up and were moving as one, and although Aiba and Nino were currently teasing Sho relentlessly for being brainy and using pretentious words like ‘propinquity’ while the other two were just laughing along in Schadenfreude, Sho felt only affection for them. It didn’t matter if he were an idol or a writer. In that moment and always, Sho would love them, and they him.

***

_Conference Room 4 at Enta Japan Holdings was a far cry from the boardroom at Joshima & Associates, which was more like a plywood booth with aged wallpaper that bore testament to its twenty-odd years. The staff kept it tidy so there wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, but this meeting room had glass doors and indulgent designer chairs with unblemished upholstery that made Kokubun want to moan every time he got to sink his butt in one of them._

_Kokubun was here today with Sakurai. They were served coffee and informed that the editors-in-chief would be with them shortly._

_The members of Akatsuki had found out Sakurai wasn’t really an idol-wannabe, but a reporter who had come to play house and write about it. Instead of hating him they offered him a permanent position in the group, and approached Joshima in a ‘well what do we do now’ kind of way, and there was no other way than to be naive and simple about it and let the higher-ups take charge from then on._

_There had been a meeting prior to this one, in which negotiations resulted in the executives of both organisations telling Sakurai that the ball was in his court — he could resign from Enta-Biz and join Joshima & Associates, or he could return to his post, according to plan, closing that chapter of his life._

_But Sakurai had an epiphany that very morning after Ohno had sent him a particularly thought-provoking email, and he’d quickly called up Joshima & Associates with a proposal of his own. The debut press conference was in less than 24 hours, and Kokubun had apologised profusely all through his request for an emergency meeting with Enta-Biz editor-in-chief Koike Eiko and her Enta-Online counterpart Amami Yuuki._

_Now, in Conference Room 4, Sakurai was ready for his pitch._

_“Why can’t I be both?” asked Sakurai._

_It was a wonder no one had asked that question before; then again, everyone had assumed Sakurai was intending to draw two salaries._

_He proceeded to argue that if he wrote in the capacity of a guest contributor, it wouldn’t be moonlighting. Also, there would be no conflict of interest between Joshima & Associates and Enta Japan Holdings because the latter wasn’t a talent agency. There were idols who were newscasters, idols who staged their own art exhibitions, so why couldn’t he be an idol who was also a hardcore journalist?_

_Koike pondered upon this for a while and said:_

_“It’s unconventional.”_

_She took a sideways glance at Amami, who shrugged. “It’ll be like engaging a freelancer. Emphasis on ‘free’.”_

_“And we’d be happy to volunteer Sakurai’s writing services anytime,” said Kokubun with an oily smile._

_Sakurai scowled at this. He hadn’t even signed the artiste contract yet._

***

“Today we have with us, for the first time, newly-debuted group Akatsuki. Good evening,” Tamori greets, bowing slightly, and they can see his eyes crinkling behind his sunglasses.

“Good evening, thank you for having us here,” chorus the four men, bowing back.

“So all of you are in your late thirties?” Tamori cuts straight to the chase, inciting a bout of laughter form the audience.

“Yes,” they respond, though Ohno forgets to raise the microphone to his mouth.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Tamori showers praise.

They are genuinely humbled and wave their hands to refute Tamori’s claim, thanking him.

“Ninomiya and I are the youngest, at 36,” says Jun, “and Ohno-san’s the eldest.”

“Ohno-kun, you used to be a backup dancer for M.F.T.P?”

The audience oohs and aahs. Aiba very subtly touches Ohno’s elbow to remind him to use the mic.

“Yes, when I was a kid,” Ohno says, and for a fraction of a second there is a pause as he wonders if he should say more.

“Leader, it’s your third time on here, right?” Nino smoothly interjects, and Ohno nods. Nino flashes a winsome smile at Tamori as he pats Ohno’s thigh. “He’s a veteran. And I’m not just saying that because he’s turning 40 next year.”

Everyone laughs, and Tamori asks:

“Where’s your other member?”

“He’s in Rio,” Aiba speaks up, “covering the Paralympics for a show we do every week on the internet.”

“That’s amazing.” Tamori turns to the camera. “It seems we have him on a live stream. Sakurai-kun?”

The screen in the studio displays Sho’s face, and it is huge and grinning, making all the guests and the audience laugh.

“Good evening, Tamori-san.” Sho bows. The camera zooms out, and Sho is revealed to be donning a form-fitting vest over a white shirt, an outfit similar to what the other members are currently wearing.

“This is Sakurai Sho from Akatsuki, thank you for having us on Music Station tonight.”

“It’s morning there, isn’t it?”

“It is, and I’m at Marina da Gloria covering the sailing event,” Sho replies, gesturing to the marina behind him. “I’ll be with all of you soon, though.”

“Right now? From Rio?” Tamori chuckles.

“Yes, I believe so,” says Sho confidently.

Tamori laughs and requests for the other four to standby. He speaks to Sho again.

“Are you ready, Sakurai-kun?”

“I am!” Sho answers, jogging on the spot.

“Come on!” Tamori calls.

Sho dashes out of frame, and the cameras cut to the stage where the members are posed around a panel, which turns out to be a screen that Sho is running into, all life-sized and computer-generated, making the audience squeal and clap. The opening bars for ‘So you wanna uh-uh’ plays and the five men start moving in sync, all swaying hips and snapping fingers, and Twitter is ablaze as #showyourmumthis and #akatsuki start trending.

They have a glorious time.

***

_BY_ **SAKURAI SHO**  
Sakurai Sho is a member of brand new Joshima & Associates unit Akatsuki and a columnist at Enta-Online. You can find him and his ostentatious lexicon on YouTube, Twitter and Instagram (@AkatsukiOFCL). He features in the documentary ‘One more daybreak’, available on DVD and Blu-Ray November 3 (4999 yen, tax incl.). Subscribe to Enta-Online to receive exclusive updates from him on the fifteenth of every month. 


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